Hi guys! It's been a while since my last fic and this style is a little more downplayed and chill in comparison to my former ones, but it's okay I guess. I haven't written a USUK fic in a long time so I apologize in advance if in case they appear to be a bit (or a lot) OOC here. This isn't my best as I'm not really that used to doing something that doesn't end in my overly emo and angsty and depressing note, but even so, I hope you guys can still enjoy this fic. It's a bit lighter in tone and has a more chill mood, and the whole thing came to me in my mind as a manga/doujinshi form (which I hope I can create one day, some day soon, with art skills that are less crappier than they are now). I'll end my rambling now okay so sorry...
Title was taken from the 64 damn prompts list on LJ. :)
Happy reading!
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
#sad ^
"Sorry."
Such a simple word, isn't it?
But the amount of strength one needs to say it is unfathomable, and even he, one of the greatest of the world's empires, struggles to let such a simple apology escape his own lips.
-x-
The silent hum of the air conditioner, the whistling breeze of the summer wind, the prosaic clicking of keys on a keyboard – it is a quiet night in the suburban home of the American nation. A few muffled footsteps and the clatter of fine china; a steaming cup is rested atop a table's wooden surface.
"I made you tea." The man's voice is soft, if not hesitant, and almost barely above a whisper.
The younger manages a grimace, but takes it anyway. "No coffee?"
"Figured I'd rather not have you be high-strung by the time we watch that movie of yours later," the Briton scoffs, seating himself on the leather armchair nearby. "Besides, I added milk to sweeten it for your taste."
"Thanks, " America says as he guzzles the drink in gratitude, flashing a grin towards his caretaker shortly afterwards. It's a wide and bright and almost childlike smile, a simple gesture of some sort; but nonetheless, the mere act is enough to make England's heart soar.
The Englishman swallows his tea in a quick, large, and almost-choking gulp – a pitiful attempt in covering up for the racing action of his pulse.
"You okay, England?"
"I'm alright," he says in between coughs. "Just drank too much is all," the former empire reasons with a dismissive wave of his hand. Taking a sheet from the stack of papers piled up on America's desk, he coughs to clear his throat. "So, is there anything I can help you with on your paperwork, lad?"
England takes a sip of his tea, raising the cup to conceal the hue of pink he feels slightly tingeing his face; and, having learned his lesson from his previous fit of coughs, slowly downed its contents of Darjeeling – or was it Earl Grey? Perhaps… Assam? Arthur never really could tell what sorts of things were present in those pre-brewed teabags Alfred had bought from the store, despite being a heavy drinker of tea himself. He had always preferred for it to be brewed naturally, anyway.
"Nah, I'm almost done. You just sit tight and leave it to the hero!" America beams with another toothy smile. He fixes his gaze back onto the laptop screen as the clicking of keys continues, seeming almost perennial in nature.
Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks, its hands striking a few seconds past the hour of eight.
-x-
The silence breaks with the start of the computer, a shuffle of papers, and the dull tapping of fingers on a laptop's keys. Half-lidded emeralds fall on the younger's back, gaze dulling from fatigue. England breathes.
"America."
The blonde pauses from his work, cocking an eyebrow in question, blue eyes turning to look at the Brit.
"Yes, England?"
He flicks the stereo on, a cacophony of sounds and static echoing in the room before he closes it once again, clucking his tongue in distaste. The room falls quiet once more as an awkward, pregnant silence hangs, unresolved, in the air.
"Ah, never mind."
"…England."
"Really, it's nothing."
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Cut yourself off. You do that a lot."
"No reason."
"You sure you're okay, Iggy?"
"Perfectly fine," he replies, as his eyes flash with the familiar glint of annoyance. "And quit it with the nicknames, you git."
"Well, if you're insulting me again, I guess it's fine."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, " America chuckles, his laughter a splendid resonance akin to that of a cheerful song's melody. "You're weird, England."
"Mm," he half-hums with a contented smile, propping his head to rest on his arm as his green eyes flutter to a lulling, somnolent close.
-x-
It's an hour and a half later when Arthur finds himself plopped onto the couch, a cup of tea in hand, a plate of scones in the other, and a warm bowl of freshly microwaved popcorn on his lap. Time is slow, almost immeasurably so, as the movie progresses on the plasma screen of the television. He turns to his side, his gaze falling on America's wrinkled expression – pursed lips, furrowed eyebrows, and cerulean eyes near tears from the build up of both suspense and fear.
The main character on the screen is a young girl in her teens, clad in a blue patterned blouse and loose, faded pants. Crouched in the corner of her bedroom closet, the young girl hid away from the wandering spirit; her eyes bloodshot and sleep-deprived, her hands shaking from anxiety. It was no different from the trembling figure that sat alongside him, Arthur concurred, as America further tightened his grip on England's hand.
The young girl on screen took the cup of saltwater by her side as she slowly opened the closet door, inching herself nearer towards the surface to peek through the crevice, and then—
"America."
"No, don't do it oh my god, it's right out the— yes, England?"
He turns to face the screen, and then back to Alfred once more, and – well, Arthur doesn't really know what happens next. But quite frankly, he doesn't care much either.
"Listen, if you've got something to tell me, you better say it out properly right now. Don't cut yourself off like before, Ig–"
The next moment Arthur finds himself conscious enough to register what's going on, his fists are balled into the cloth of the younger's shirt, his emerald eyes are glued to a pair of blue sapphires, and his lips are locked with Alfred's own. The bowl falls on the ground, the contents of its popcorn long since finished. Crumbs of scones scatter themselves on the wooden floorboards while caramel-brown drops of liquid spill over from the fallen teacup. A maddening blush creeps onto the gentleman's cheeks, mirroring the look of shock that paints over the face of the hero before his eyes.
Nonetheless, England digs in deeper, entwining their tongues until their souls relaxed and set themselves on the same wavelength, dancing to the same symphonic rhythm that pulsed through their bodies and beat in their hearts.
Kissing America was like falling into the ocean, where America was the current that embraced and carried him in strong arms, their bodies like the waves that lapped on the shore, pulling them closer and luring them in to take the plunge. Where titles and duties were washed away by saltwater tears, and the whole other entirety of the world ceased to exist for much longer. Where they were no longer countries and colonies but just Arthur and Alfred – two boys whose pasts no longer mattered because at long last, they were together once again.
And in that brief moment of surrealism where their lips brushed past one another's and their breaths mixed as one, Arthur could forget about who he was and who they were, letting everything go as he closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel, at least once, that he really, truly was alive.
Then they both pull away, gasping and breathless and desperate for air, yet it still feels as though they're stuck in that same ocean; floating in a standstill of time, lungs drained and on the brink of collapse at any given moment.
"England– "
His eyes widen, dumbfounded, as his fingers graze over his parted lips, and England feels as though his mind has blacked out and shut down on him once more. As though all his words have failed him, having gotten lost in his vocabulary, and not even a single sound or response can come out from his mouth. He wracks his brain for answers and for reasons. What…why…how the bloody hell did he even allow himself to get into this mess in the first place?
"A-America, I…I–"
But before he can continue, his hands clamp over his mouth and his forest green eyes are streaming with rivulets of crystal blue, and he dashes out the room much faster than he expects his legs to be able to carry him – leaving behind a lonely boy and a slamming door in his wake.
-x-
Arthur slinks down to the floor, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he waits for the calm to rush over him. Pools of regret spill over relentlessly from within his forest green eyes – bitter and scorching and painfully overwhelming. And even then, the silence of the night refuses to cease.
There's a fine line that exists between loving someone and falling in love with someone, and when this fragile boundary between caring for and lusting for is broken, the equilibrium that balances a relationship is shattered – resulting in what may be deemed as the most tragic form of damnation in the eyes of man. And while it may have only been natural for a colony to be treasured by its charge, the moment England's eyes fell upon the American with a gaze lasting longer than it should – taking in the features of a boy so beautiful it could almost render him breathless – Arthur knew he had crossed the line.
America stands by the door, a chain of keys in hand, a small smile forming on his curling lips.
"Your crying face is beautiful, did you know that?"
His shoulders jerk; his body tenses, and England can only hang his head low as the muffled sounds of his choked sobs escape him. He wants to apologize to America – to beg and plead and ask for his forgiveness – for forcing a kiss, for causing the war, and for – sinfully – having fallen in love. But he can't. He's scared and ashamed and afraid of what he's done, and all he can do is ramble on about the past and the war and his crippling fear of losing the boy again for a second time.
The hero takes a few steps forward, pace hastening as he moves towards the crouched Briton. He bends down and falls on his knees, arms reaching out as he cups the elder's face in the palms of his hands. England leans in to his touch; the coolness of Alfred's skin a wonderful contrast to the heated flush of his tear-streaked cheeks.
"But it's just as I thought," America says, voice trailing off as he tilts the gentleman's face upward to meet his gaze. He wipes the tears away with the crook of his thumb, chuckling slightly at the sight of his former caretaker's expression.
Looking at him, Arthur thinks, it's almost as if he's sinking slowly in the depths of the great, blue sea; overwhelmingly so, as he feels himself drown in both the color and the vastness of those dazzling, fulgent eyes.
They lock their lips for a second time that night, a featherweight and gentle press of their lips against one another in a soundless exchange of apologies and forgiveness. His arms wrap themselves around the elder's back, steadying his hold, and it's almost as though he could feel England's heart beating and racing and throbbing in his chest – like a delicate, frightened bird struggling desperately against the walls of its very own cage.
"A smile still suits you so much better, after all, Artie."
Then, like the wordsmith that he was, he'd take England in with the magic of his words – very carefully, crafting and whispering to the empire the things he knows that he had always wanted to hear – and he casts a spell on him until England falls, hopelessly and eternally, bound.
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